Sometimes, he was an abstract painter, freely streaking paint back and forth, bold and unrestrained, with no rules to speak of, and other times he was like a pioneering pianist, his canvas became his piano keys, and a single smudge was like playing a natural solo with peaks and boundless plains.
There were not many people in this kind of neighborhood. Due to the late hour, almost no one was out for a walk. The two of them sat down on a bench and quietly listened to the sounds of insects chirping for over half an hour.
The chirping of insects in the southern winter is not as cheerful as it is in summer, sparse and infrequent, but each chirp is full of force, as if they were singing their heart out with the last bit of life force, aiming to leave their profound echoes in the coming spring.
Having digested their meal, the two returned to the villa.
Aunt Yuan tactfully remained in her own room and didn't come out.
